


just buzzed

by soldmyscars



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drunk Affection, Fluff without Plot, Idiots in Love, M/M, enjoy the cheese, second dumbest thing I've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 01:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3877561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldmyscars/pseuds/soldmyscars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ian can't really handle his whiskey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just buzzed

**Author's Note:**

> don't you love how i never keep my promises about posting fics? for some reason the things i actually _want_ to write don't happen, and i end up producing things like this instead. gdi, brain, get with the program.

Tires screech, drivers hastily slamming on the brakes to avoid hitting Ian as he stumbles across the road on legs as graceful and coordinated as a newborn fawn. Mickey hurries after him, throwing his middle finger in the air when the shouting and honking increases. "Yo, Bambi!" he calls out. "You tryin' to get hit by a fuckin' car?"

Ian steps onto the sidewalk, latching onto a lamppost for dear life to keep himself from tumbling before he pushes off of it with effort. "Don't worry, _mom_." He smirks. "I'll look both ways before I cross the street next time."

"Even if you did, you'd probably march right into oncoming traffic anyway," Mickey grumbles, stepping onto the boulevard and leading the way to the sidewalk.

"Would not." Ian bumps into him from behind, finding Mickey's waist beneath his jacket with clumsy, drunken hands. "Don't be mad, baby!"

Ian shouting in his ear and the unintended jump from _mom_ to _baby_ makes Mickey pull a face. Even though he actually, kinda, _sorta_ likes it when Ian calls him baby, from time to time, it's forever ruined for him now. "Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, but his scowl softens in surprise when Ian wraps his arms around him and squeezes him like a teddy bear, stepping on his heels and planting little kisses along the sensitive skin behind Mickey's ear. "Would you fuckin' quit that? You _would to_ , because you're drunk off your skinny ginger ass."

Initially they'd gone out for a mellow night of shooting pool and hustling a few idiots out of their money. Ian swindled a guy out of a nice wristwatch, which glints on his wrist like a shiny piece of candy beneath the lights of the city. 

When Ian decided he wanted to celebrate their winnings and buy them a few rounds of shots, Mickey had pocketed his half of the cash and let it happen, feeling loose and agreeable, Ian's stare hot on him as he knocked them back, throat working through the burn of cheap whiskey. He even let Ian kiss him, let him crowd him against the bar where everybody could see and smile stupidly into his mouth, big hands cradling his face.

Unlike tequila, which... does bad things to Mickey, whiskey is his drink. Mickey can handle whiskey, preferably in the form of a boilermaker.

Ian, on the other hand--

"I'm not _drunk,_ " he insists. "I'm just buzzed, I swear! I barely feel anything." He laughs and staggers on his next step, leaning onto Mickey's back and making him stagger too from the unexpected weight. 

Mickey grunts and shoves Ian away, but keeps an eye on his lanky frame as he weaves unevenly down the sidewalk in case he needs to catch the dumb fuck if he takes a nosedive. He ignores the way his back feels cold without Ian there anymore. "Yeah, I'll bet you don't feel much right now, tough guy."

"I _am_ tough," Ian agrees, chin rising. "I could kick your cute little thug ass if I wanted to, you know."

...What in the _fuck_ did Ian just call him?

When Mickey doesn't immediately respond, Ian glances at him. "You're blushing," he accuses, delighted.

Mickey is so not. He's been drinking. It's the alcohol. "Fuck off, there ain't nothin' little about me." Ian chuckles, and Mickey's shoulders hunch. They walk another block in silence before Mickey sniffs. "Change that K in kick to an L and then _maybe_ you could."

Ian pauses for a long moment, mouthing _K and L_ to himself like he's trying to figure out a math problem. His face screws up in confusion. "Huh?" 

Mickey arches a brow. "You can't figure it out, that's your problem."

"That's not fair. You're being cryptic! Help me out, you dick!" Ian pouts, which Mickey does not find cute at all.

He shrugs wryly. "If you were sober, you'd understand."

Ian pouts at him some more before he sighs heavily and rubs at his temples. "This conversation is going in circles. ...And so am I. Mick, why are the walls spinning?"

"There aren't any walls, dipshit. We're outside."

Ian waves a hand. "You know what I mean, _Jesus._ " He stumbles again and Mickey's arm shoots out, grabbing his elbow until he's stable again.

Ian is even more of a drama queen when he's drunk, something which never fails to both annoy and amuse the hell out of him. "Yeah I know." Mickey thumbs at the corner of his mouth, fighting a grin. " _Jesus_ ," he mocks.

"Ugh!"

Now Mickey does grin.

It doesn't take long for Ian's petulance to fade, and his spine relaxes along with his expression. "Hey, Mick?" he says, starting to smile. "Were you serious?"

Mickey glances at him, hand absently moving to the small of Ian's back as they turn the corner, before lowering again when they're back on track. "'Bout what?"

Ian _mmm_ 's under his breath. "When you said I could rim you."

Mickey's tongue probes at his bottom lip as he lowers his eyes to their feet, still grinning. "Light bulb finally went off, huh?"

"Shut up," Ian retorts.

Mickey is the one to make Ian stumble this time when he pushes him. Ian let's out a small squawk and then settles, knocking their shoulders together. "Asshole. You didn't answer my question."

"What question?" Mickey says, just to piss him off.

"Fucking..." Ian shakes his head, not continuing the insult. 

Mickey bites the inside of his cheek, watching him weave from sidewalk to grass to sidewalk to grass, muttering to himself.

Ian eventually slows when he notices Mickey lagging behind him. "Mick!" he calls, much louder than necessary considering there's barely three feet between them. He laughs and looks over his shoulder. "Mickey! Why are you so far away?"

Mickey flips him off, which only seems to make Ian's grin widen. He seems to have completely forgotten about the question Mickey didn't answer. He turns around and starts walking backwards precariously and extends a hand out towards Mickey, opening and closing it like he wants Mickey to take it. 

"I'm not holding your fucking hand," Mickey says, even as another blush climbs up his cheeks.

"Come on," Ian cajoles. His grin goes from wide and childish to small and curved, eyes glinting. 

Mickey stuffs his hands deep into his jacket pockets. "Only in your dreams."

Ian stops walking abruptly, causing Mickey to bump into him. He takes his hands out of his pockets to keep his balance and they land on Ian's chest and stomach. Ian's hands find his biceps, curling around them before he can pull away. Mickey can feel Ian's abs and pecs tighten as he steadies them both, and his mouth suddenly goes dry. 

"You wanna know what I do to you in my dreams, Mick?" Ian asks, voice dropping to a husky rasp. Like he just smoked a carton of cigarettes. Or deep throated Mickey's dick for an hour.

A car passes by, windows rolled down and music blaring. Mickey's hands twitch but don't fall to his sides, aware of the way Ian is watching him. Expecting him to jerk away, to flinch, like he might have before he came out to every asshole in this goddamn neighborhood. "You hold my hand as we skip through a field of fucking rainbows and unicorns?" Mickey guesses, not taking the bait.

Ian snorts. "That's _your_ dream," he teases, squeezing Mickey's biceps.

Mickey stares at him, unimpressed.

"Alright, alright." Ian moves his hands from Mickey's arms to Mickey's face, cupping his jaw and nearly encompassing the entire lower half of it for the second time tonight. Mickey hates how warm it makes him feel, how he sways into it. Ian's stupid big, warm hands. Stupid long, dexterous fingers that always know exactly what to do to him to make him melt into a puddle of fucking _goo_. Goddammit.

"Alright," Mickey repeats, quieter. He can smell the alcohol on Ian's breath, mingling with his own soft puffs of air.

"Gonna kiss you now," Ian murmurs.

"Yeah?" Mickey replies. His heart starts to run, breath involuntarily quickening - that combination of nerves, excitement, and desire hitting him like it always does whenever their faces are close. He never knew something as simple as a mouth on a mouth could be so intense, could hook him in and make his knees fucking weak just thinking about it. "Get on with it then," he prods, starting to get impatient as the seconds tick by.

Ian brushes the pad of his thumb across Mickey's bottom lip, briefly pushing it against Mickey's teeth, making Mickey's breath catch. "Don't rush me." 

Just as he's about to rise up onto his toes and take the kiss himself, Ian moves in and Mickey's eyes close. It's not the smoothest kiss he's ever had, sloppy and wet. Ian's tongue pushes into his mouth and Mickey moans, though, a sound that has Ian groaning softly in return. Mickey feels it all the way down to his feet. 

When Ian pulls away his eyes are half-lidded and his lips are red, and the whole lower half of Mickey's face is tingling in Ian's palms. He doesn't remember doing it - but somehow his arms have ended up wound around Ian's back, clutching his jacket, holding him close; their chests, stomachs, and thighs flush against one another. Ian is staring at him with intent, pupils so blown Mickey can't see more than a thin ring of dishwater green surrounding them. "Christ, you're gorgeous, you know?" Ian says. _Breathes_ , more like.

Mickey swallows, a little stunned and embarrassed, because that's the last thing he is, really. But he can't turn away without making it seem like he's not turning away, because Ian is still cradling his face and head, and for some reason he can't tell Ian he's full of shit. The words stick in his throat. Ian looks so fucking _earnest_ , no hint of teasing anywhere. "Not so bad yourself," he finally croaks, gruff, almost shyly.

Ian beams down at him. Mickey wants to squirm under the force of it, and finally has to lower his eyes to Ian's neck. Ian presses another, softer kiss against Mickey's slack mouth, sweet as honey. The pressure makes Mickey tighten his fists in Ian's jacket before they both release each other.

As they start walking again, Ian slings his arm around Mickey's shoulders and hauls him into his side. "Let's go home," he says with a grin as they stumble together. "I'm drunk."

Mickey laughs. "Yeah," he agrees, looping his arm around Ian's waist with a small, crooked smile. "Let's go home."

**Author's Note:**

> ...idek lmao.


End file.
